


Waves of the Titan

by rpardina



Series: The Sacred Prophecy Trilogy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5150027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpardina/pseuds/rpardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years ago, the Targaryens were attacked and the Sealord's newborn daughter was hidden in a distant land called Earth. Now she is back and the sacred prophecy is finally unfolding. Jon/OC. Weekly updates! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My baby sloth](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+baby+sloth).



> A few quick notes. In this story:  
> \- R+L = J is accepted as truth. As such, Daenerys and Jon are relatives.  
> \- I have put in my own two main characters: Lira and Ybarro. I’m sure very few will remember this show, but credit for the names goes to ‘Encantadia’.  
> \- Some characters may seem out of character, but bear with me. I wanted to consider GRRM’s wonderfully thought out characters in other ways (e.g. Tywin)  
>  I envision this story as a trilogy, starting with Waves of the Titan. Now let’s begin!

**Prologue**

“We cannot attack Castle Black,” Tywin finally decided after nearly an hour of deliberating with his son. “We will lose all credibility.”

“Is a taint on our name more important than its probable eradication?” Jaime Lannister asked, a hint of provocation tinting his tone.

Tywin considered this, as he has considered it for the past fifty minutes. He was a seasoned tactician, climbing rank after rank through his wits in battle strategy. “Castle Black stands as protector of Westeros, if only by name. Attacking it will most definitely turn everyone against us. Do not doubt for a moment that they will hunt us down and kill us all.”

“We can do it discretely,” Jaime offered. “Nobody will ever know her death came by our hands.”

The old man knew it was only a matter of time before murder was suggested. He wished, deep down, that it has never crossed his son’s mind. Tywin knew perfectly that honour was for dead men – the Starks will be testament to that soon enough. No, it was not the honourable man inside him, but rather the philosopher, who protested at the idea. And rightly so, he thought.

After all, killing an innocent who has done them no wrong to preserve their name is _exactly_ what got the Lannisters in this mess to begin with. While Tywin knew his son had the right idea, it still discontented him to see he could not teach the boy enough sense to even acknowledge that point.

Although sensing a small hint of disappointment, Jaime continued, undeterred, ‘We could discredit Castle Black and then attack. I just came to hear that Mance Rayder is negotiating with Mormont to form an alliance. We could use that to our advantage and get everyone on our side. I know not a single man in Westeros with love for those savages!

Or we could send an assassin to disrupt the negotiations, help band the wildlings together to attack the Watch, then kill the girl.

Or how about-

“I have thought of all those things, Jaime. We will try them all but you must not underestimate the enemy.” Tywin replied, noting with dissatisfaction that not once did the Kingslayer consider the opposition’s forethought and counter-attacks. “Have you ever seen the Old Bear? Near his deathbed, you’d be sure to see, but commands respect nonetheless because of his great cunning _._ ”

“But surely, against you-”

“Lions may be seen as kings, but even kings must see their own weaknesses. Recklessness and pride will only get you killed.” His voice carried, too loud in the cold, dusk-lit room. Despite the diminishing lighting, he could see all too well the resignation and fatigue in his son’s eyes. Tywin stood up, finally ready to have the last, decisive word.

“I thank you for your faith in me, my son. You have always been my greatest source of pride and I am glad you regard me as someone to be reckoned with.” In a quick motion, he held up a hand to halt his reply. “All I am saying is that, I _know_ from first-hand experience that the High Commander is a better, more experienced strategist than I, or anyone I know for that matter. How do you think the last Targaryen child survived all these years? Do you think I’ve just been passive with her sitting around in Meereen, gathering armies and raising dragons!?

Take my word for it, as it is not a common occurrence that I humble myself.” Tywin sighed, not for the first time that afternoon. “This is not to say that we will not try to infiltrate Castle Black to kill the girl. We clearly cannot attack head on while the Crows are seen as protectors. Although I’m not entirely convinced we can stop the chain of events, let’s not be too defeatist and hasten our deaths.

But, rest assured, we can and will try to do it quietly. Everything you have suggested is good. We will discuss more and execute them in good time. Let us hope the Old Bear drinks one glass too many of that awful concoction they call wine up there, and makes a mistake.” At this, Jaime’s handsome features hinted at a smile and Tywin’s eyes softened slightly at the sight.

“One of our main priorities is blocking all its communication to and from Braavos, or any other place we find suspicious. There are wargs within my spies who are well-equipped to the job.

Of course, the moment she travels anywhere, we will kill her.” Tywin looked down from the window, as if to memorize the piece of King’s Landing he has grown so fond of. May the Seven help him keep it. “If she cannot reach her destination, she cannot fulfil the prophecy that will doom us all.”

Jaime knew his father would speak no more of it when Tywin sat back down. The Kingslayer left without another word. As he did, Tywin could see the tightness around Jaime’s mouth, the barely concealed fear in his eyes. He wished he could take them away but he knew telling him was the right decision. Ignorance could not keep Jaime safe anymore. Anymore… Tywin scoffed at his dishonesty to himself. Sixty-five years of life in Kings’ Landing has turned him into an excellent liar.

It never did keep Jaime safe, or any of them for that matter. The old man closed his eyes, tiredness closing in after nearly twenty years of fighting the inevitable. In a way, all his actions since that fateful day were all in denial of their ultimate destination:

Absolute disgrace.

Tywin could not help but close his eyes. The discussion with Jaime had been futile. Strategizing to impede the girl is futile. In fact, if he would be completely honest with himself, everything he has ever done or will ever do, really, has absolutely no purpose whatsoever. The prophecy will be fulfilled one way or another. There is not, nor was there ever, any legacy he could leave in this world apart from being loathed, or worse, pitied.

There has never been a moment in his life when he felt more wretched, more useless, than he did right at this moment. Tywin almost felt that Jaime, with all his faults, had taken the news with more fortitude than he himself was capable of when his own father had first told him. Then again, Jaime had never cared nearly as much as he had about upholding the Lannister name.

In any case, he was glad he was no longer alone in keeping this cursed family secret, which, by some strange, earlier decision, was told only to the eldest child. This feeling of relief was indeed selfishness on his part, but his sanity thanked the Seven that he finally had a confidante regarding the source of his misery. He found comfort in the fact that, for twenty years, he had allowed his son to live his life free of this burden – which is more than can be said for his own father, who apparently told his eldest brother on his ninth name day. No, he can’t feel too terribly about it. He had done him right as a father.

With a strange sense of resigned peace, he recalled his revelations to Jaime the night before. In retrospect, Tywin had explained rather well given the content and the current circumstances. Perhaps he had accepted this fate more than he thought he had. Or perhaps, it owed to those five glasses of Dornish wine he gulped just moments before.

~*~*~*

He had entered his son’s room without a single knock, and took the liberty of collapsing into a sitting position beside him. Taking no notice whatsoever of Jaime’s surprise or discomfort, he began his rant with a command.

“Do not interrupt me.”

The Kingslayer could do nothing but nod and indulge his inconsiderate, drunk father.

“Very well. Where to begin…” One hand raised against his forehead, in an attempt to calm his racing thoughts, he allowed himself to collapse on Jaime’s bed. Tywin turned to the side to face his son’s concerned expression then propped himself up with his elbow. It reminded him of when Jaime was still a little boy waiting for him to recount his favourite stories of the Andals. Well, now the father did have a story for his son… but it was definitely not a pleasant one.

“The prophecy, Jaime. The one true prophecy of the gods. Recite it to me.”

Jaime complied. After all, it was not a difficult task. It was the sacred prophecy known by all. He began:

_“The true rulers against the Great Other,_

_Storm after calm after storm._

_Faithless servants of darkness brought to end,_

_Stallion of dawn – falling, falling._

_Waters of blood for ocean of change,_

_United – the guards of the gods._

_Once impossible, twice in truth,_

_Hark, the waves of the Titan.”_

“Backwards,” Tywin replied. “Its meaning is from the end to the beginning. For twenty years, I have sought to understand what the gods were trying to tell us six hundred years ago. Fool that I am, I only just realized we had it all backwards.”

Jaime nodded gravely. If he was curious as to why they were now speaking of the sacred prophecy or where Tywin intended to go with this discussion, the Kingslayer did not show. He vowed not to interrupt and despite what others think of him, he did not take his vows lightly.

To his credit, the old man was conscious that he was not making much sense. He was not explaining what he needed Jaime to understand. His father before him was much better, perhaps due to the fact it was not his first time touching on the subject. Tywin took a deep, shaky breath to compose his hazy thoughts. From the beginning, he resolved. From the beginning.

“We are rich, Jaime. Far richer than anybody in the Seven Kingdoms! Yet has anybody ever asked you where it all comes from?” he challenged without waiting for a response. Tywin already knew the answer was no. In fact, it was not as simple as that others have not asked. Neither have the Lannisters, save the wiser eldest children, enquired over such a fundamental question.

Seeing his son’s new-found curiosity, he began his tale – the very same, damned tale he had learned from his father upon the death of his elder brother.

“Some six hundred years ago, the Lannister name was nothing but a bad taste on everyone’s mouths. People looked down on us, proclaiming we were worth less than the dirt on the sole of their shoes. They all wished us dead. And they had the right to, I dare say. We owed too much to too many and all were bad debts. It reached the point where we were selling Lannister daughters as whores and Lannister boys as slaves, auctioned away, sometimes as far away as across the Dothraki sea.

Then one day, one Lannister finally said enough, and made a deal that cursed us all, even to this day. This man’s name, you do not need to concern yourself with. He was an insane fool. Worse, an insane fool in possession of the ancient magic of death.

He rode day and night, hardly resting, for close to a month to a destination beyond the wall. When he finally stopped, it was said to be in the middle of nowhere but everywhere. Do not ask me what that means because I haven’t the slightest idea. It is simply how it has been explained generation after generation.

The man then spoke. First to himself, then to the wind and then… to another. The Great Other.

The latter was in need of souls. Powerful as it was, it could not itself steal the souls of the dead. It needed to acquire itself an accomplice, one with the means to submit to it what it required. What he used them for then, or where they are now, I don’t believe I desire to know.

The Lannister was in need of wealth. His abilities with the dead could not turn copper into gold and he was filled with desperation. Tired of derision and humiliation, driven by foolishness, he sought to gain favour with the only god he knew would be persuaded.

An agreement was reached: Unlimited, unquestioned wealth for the Lannister and his descendants, from that point to the end of his line. Souls of the unborn for the god of destruction, from that point…

… To the end of his line.”

Tywin stopped, his expression matching that of his son’s – mirrors of terror and hopelessness. With one last look and a set of firmly pressed lips, the father stood. His tale was finished. It was up to the son to understand its meaning, decide what to make of it and settle on a course of action. He was sure Jaime would seek him out when he was more sober.

For the moment, he will sleep off his inebriation and forget about the Titan, the Great Other and the damned-

“Faithless servants of darkness.” The man’s voice was nothing but a terrified, boyish whisper but it was sufficient to alert Tywin that the Kingslayer had understood their predicament. Halfway out the door, before shutting it to a close, he did not turn back but answered with a dejected sigh.

“Brought to an end.”

_Unfairly_ brought to a _fucking_ end, Tywin thought to add, as he left Jaime alone with his thoughts.

~*~*~*

“A message, my Lord. The raven came just now bearing a strand of red yarn,” said the squire hurriedly. His lord had seemed in deep thought and unwelcoming to any sort of disturbance. The boy would not have entered had it not been for the red yarn, signifying great urgency. With a quick bow of deference, he left the letter in Lord Tywin’s hand.

The old man quickly examined the letter’s seal and instantly knew the source. The red witch did have an infamous love of fire after all. He took his time unrolling the parchment, but his heart took no time in quickening its pace upon reading the very first line.

_‘Tywin,_

_Our last meeting was not as fruitful as I hoped, but I write to tell you of another way. The lord of light is forgiving and does not wish to punish the faultless, regardless of name. R’hllor, the one true god, offers us mercy._

_Meet me under the bridge of sighs at dawn on the morrow. I will tell you what must be done. Be warned, my love, you must stay strong and bear the price._

_Yours in this life and the next,_

_Melissandre’_

Tywin put the letter down, his throat nearly giving way to a small chuckle. No, nothing was particularly worth his mirth but he could not resist appreciating the irony. For twenty years, he lived as normal, completely refusing to accept the history and prophecy he was told. Now that he was finally coming to terms with the inevitable, a crazy redhead who can speak with fire tells him his family might just survive after all.

At this point, he was sure of only two things: he was very slowly but very surely going insane, and being called ‘my love’ by Melissandre makes him very uncomfortable.


	2. Jon

**Jon**

There were times – not many, but a few – when Jon Snow was glad he decided to join the Night’s Watch. As he looked down on the land way below in all its vast, snow-covered glory, it struck him that this might be one of them.

He settled back in his place against the cold, stone wall and revelled in his solitude. The first rays of the sun were beginning to drizzle down on the Wall, leaving the snow almost iridescent under its soft downpour. It brought a small smile to his cold lips.

At this modest hour of the dawn, the grounds of Castle Black were still with deadly silence. No birds fly above nor call out to break the sounds of nothing. Along with most creatures in the area, they rose later during the day to preserve the energy they need to withstand the cold. As the last few wisps of his fire came to their end, he almost wished he could join them in slumber. At least, in his bed he wasn’t this bloody cold.

Vaguely, he recalled his little Arya asking him why he would want to come to the Wall and slowly freeze to death. He just laughed at her then, at the time filled with nothing but naïve eagerness to take the black. What was cold when he knew he was protecting those he loved, he had asked her. To fight off the wildlings and other dangers would give him the chance to be more than a bastard son. He would show his father, Robb, Sansa and everyone that there was more to Jon than Snow. A strong gust of wind brought him back from his thoughts, his body betraying him with a violent shiver. He coughed, silently willing his body to fend off any impending illness.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Lady Catelyn smirking, looking down on him with that condescending gaze. ‘It’s because you are not a Stark,’ he could almost hear her say with triumph. Such ease in imaging her cruel words came naturally. After all, he could remember her last words to him before he left Winterfell forever. ‘It is for the best you vow never to father children. This world could do with less scumbags and thieves,’ she had told him. Jon Snow has never felt hate as pure as that of Catelyn Stark. It tortured him then. Slowly, he felt her hate tearing small pieces of him. Every time she glowered at him, spoke harsh words or hid him from visitors or guests. Despite the love he received from his father and siblings, he never really felt complete.

Coming here, to this forgotten part of the world, didn’t really help him fill that gap but here, he knew he had become a better version of himself. His intentions at first have been to take the black to seek glory, praise and acceptance. A recognition that he was every bit as good as Ned’s legitimate children, especially Robb.

Life at the Wall had opened his eyes that as real as his woes were in Winterfell, there are greater worries carried by others, and with more grace. Those two boys he had beaten bloody during his very first day at training taught him his first lesson. He took pleasure in making them look like fools, striking harder than was necessary, then looked down as they laid defeated. For the first time in his life, Jon thought himself better than others and it had felt good for a while.

Then he begrudgingly realised that had their situations been reversed, he would probably be the one with the broken face and the aching ribs. Jon, the poor bastard boy, had been taught in a grand castle by a renowned master-at-arms. Trained how to hit, where to strike, and when to move. Pyp had been a homeless orphan, with a younger sister to care for, who fought for his next meal. Grenn was much the same, having lived in a farm with his abusive father, overworked and underfed. No longer did his superiority feel glorious. Jon began to detest his thirst for acknowledgement and tendency for unjust comparisons.

Meeting the unimpressive Samuel Tarly had furthered his education. Beaten to a big pulp within seconds, the plump boy took no humiliation to heart and simply walked away. Later that night, the boy came to thank Jon. When confronted why he did not struggle to defend himself, he replied as if it were the simplest answer, ‘Because I’m a coward.’

Ha! How Jon had felt the weight taken off his shoulders then. He could not help but laugh, no doubt the loudest of guffaws Castle Black had heard in a long time. Everything now seemed so ridiculous. His life would have been so much happier if he did not take the word ‘bastard’ as poison and just submitted to it like it was nothing. Why was Jon so unrefined unlike the others? ‘Because I’m a bastard,’ he should have replied. Why was Jon not invited at the dinner table like the others? ‘Because I’m a bastard.’ Why was Jon’s name day not celebrated with a grand feast at the Great Hall like the others’? ‘Because I’m a bastard.’

‘Why are you laughing?’ Sam had asked him then.

‘Well, Sam. You know why?’ he had baited, eyes full of mirth, burdened no longer. ‘Because I’m a bastard!’

It was then, during that awfully cold night, on watch with Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill that Jon finally understood what the dwarf meant. ‘Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it can never be used to hurt you.’

The next few years passed more tolerably after that. By no means had it been easy – far from it. It was always too cold and food was very rarely in abundance. While he became accustomed to waking at ungodly hours to train, the onslaught against his weary body never got easier. He felt just as tired now as when he had started. The daily insults and ordeals Ser Alliser put him through were not helping either. It appears Lord Snow had offended the resident master-at-arms in refusing to allow the Ser to torment the newcomers. Indeed, it was Alliser’s fault why he was here sitting on the edge of the Wall instead of on his bedchambers fast asleep. ‘You wanted to watch out for these good-for-nothing boys. Fine. Watch out for them tonight. You’re on watch both shifts,’ he snarled at him. He said not a single word back, choosing to leave with a simple nod. _Alright_ , he thought. _This is what I signed up for, hardly a punishment._

In the recent months, he had been torn between keeping his vows and helping Robb put his family back together. His beloved father had been unfairly branded a traitor and executed. Sansa was being held captive at King’s Landing and Arya was missing. Everything seemed to be falling apart. A part of him wanted to go back and help in any way he could. But he had decided to stay. His father was gone, yes, but at least Arya and Sansa were still alive. Bran had awoken. And Robb was proving himself a formidable opponent. Jon was sure he was more needed here, than in his brother’s war. He was afraid there are more terrifying battles to be fought.

Winter is coming.

Nightmares have reached reality and the White Walkers have awoken. His thoughts were perfectly voiced by Mormont when he asked, ‘When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?’ No, he resolved, his place was right here with his new brothers.

The sound of heavy boots scraping against tiny pebbles against stone broke the calm of dawn. Jon looked up to see the High Commander walking towards him, a small scowl playing on the crease of his forehead. Jeor Mormont was old and his strength had been steadily receding for a number of years but Jon could see he was formidable. There was something in his eyes that spoke of a man always three steps ahead. A calculating man, manipulative even. From the way he was looking at Jon, the younger man could tell Mormont had something planned for him. Yet somehow, he could not bring himself to distrust the Old Bear.

“Why are you out here on watch? I announced yesterday that you’re to join the hunt this morning. Did you not even think to get some rest?” The High Commander asked, the scowl deepening as he figured out what transpired. Jon's face showed no sign of complaint, yet it betrayed deep exhaustion. “On watch for both shifts. Alliser is getting out of hand.” There was a hint of irritation at his tone. Perhaps he felt slighted at being overruled, Jon considered.

“I am not tired,’ he replied. “I’ll be ready to join them in an hour.”

“Stubborn boy. The next time Alliser pulls something like this, you come straight to me,” Jeor insisted, with a tone of power fit for the King.

“Lord Commander, I am grateful but I do not need your protection-”

“This is not about you, Snow.” This was said softly, but with a touch of exasperation. For a moment, Jon had to stifle an angry retort. He had just spent the whole night, cold and awake, so his brothers could rest peacefully. Perhaps, he may have been before, but selfish was definitely not how he would describe himself now.

As quickly as the indignation came was how quickly it dissipated. He was not selfish and Mormont was not insinuating that he was. He focused on the man in front of him, bringing his emotions in check. As the older man turned his gaze down below to the Haunted Forest, it occurred to Jon that the Lord Commander must be weary. “How do you think it would look if they see Alliser undermining my authority? The lot of them already see me as a frail, old man. I will not allow them to see me as weak.”

He nodded in empathy. As a young boy, Jon would have readily asserted that politics was the least interesting thing to ever exist in Essos. It was overly complicated, comprehensively underhanded and abominably insincere. Saying one thing and meaning another, placing a smile where there should be nothing but a grimace – he did not understand why people do such things. Growing up in Winterfell soon made him realise it was a necessary part of life. Mormont, just like his father had, needed to appear unbreakable.

“There is a war coming, Jon, and this time, I am quite out of my depth.”

“We’ll be fine. We can fight them,” he offered, remembering the walking corpse he had killed with fire all those months ago. It was true. The wights, the dead raised by the Others, were easy enough to destroy. All you had to do was burn the body.

However, Jon knew first hand that fire does not work on the Walkers themselves. It is said this was because of the intense cold they are able to radiate from their bodies, which suffocates any approaching flame.

Cold which suffocates fire. The Stark words have never been truer.

They are not indestructible but the miserable fact stands that it is almost impossible to win should the Others attack the Wall. Although the young man inadvertently centered his attention upon ‘almost,’ he also had to acknowledge that the odds are more than slightly against them. The Watch is now at its most depressing numbers, counting just over five hundred men with more than half untrained. Negotiations of reinforcements from King’s Landing are moving far too slowly. Perhaps the worst problem of all is that there are only two things which might prove successful against Walkers’ magic - Valyrian steel and dragon glass. The former is rare, the latter, extinct.

Jon’s fingers unconsciously found the hilt of Longclaw, the Valyrian sword gifted to him by Mormont after the first attack of the wights at Castle Black. A small smile graced his numb lips remembering the Old Bear’s exact words. ‘A bastard sword for a bastard boy,’ he jested. With shame, he remembers not being the slightest bit amused. He felt resentful, wishing his own father had wielded for him a Stark weapon so everyone knew he had a family. Such an anguished boy he was back then. But no more. Now, he felt grateful and honoured that a great man bestowed upon him a great sword, one which belonged to the Mormonts for at least five hundred years.

The imp once suggested to him the potential extent of the steel’s rarity. Only two hundred in the Seven Kingdoms, he humbly estimated. While Jon cannot even fathom a guess regarding the Walkers’ numbers, he knew that getting their hands on those swords would require serious cooperation and even then? It may still not be enough.

Mormont strode toward him, smooth black leathers whispering faintly as he moved. He placed a cold, ungloved hand on Jon’s left shoulder – a kind gesture Ned Stark used to give Jon after Catelyn gave the boy a scolding. “Go to your chambers and get ready, Snow. You’ve done enough for tonight,” he commanded.

“I’ll be in the courtyard within an hour’s quarter,” Jon promised. All he wanted to do was collapse over his blankets, but he swore not to show weakness to the man who has shown him trust. With a curt nod from Mormont, the younger man left without another word – his duty at the forefront of his mind.

~*~*~*

“That is a bow to shoot at long distances, not an infant’s rattle to shake around,” Ser Alliser said sharply. “Have you ever used a long bow, Lord Snow?”

Jon used to hate that name, the mockery that Ser Alliser had pinned on him the first day he came to training. The boys had picked it up, and to this day, he still hears it from his brothers but it no longer had the desired effect. Over time, the jab became a genuine title of respect from all except the Ser, and became an honour rather than an insult. “No,” he replied.

Thorne marched toward him, pebbles softly screeching beneath his boots as he moved. He was a man of slightly above average height, wearing fifty years’ worth of lines against his ever-scowling face. “Then why did the High Commander send you here?” he challenged. The other hunters and gatherers stood close enough to hear and this fact did not go unnoticed by Alliser.

“Ask him yourself,” Jon retorted. A soft flame of anger burned at the thought of Ser Alliser criticizing Mormont’s leadership without any chance of rebuttal from the man himself.

“I do not take orders from ignorant bastards.”

“Can we go back to shooting our supper or shall I sit while you waste daylight?”

One of boys at the gathering party sniggered. Jon knew better than to show emotion. He had gained the others’ respect over the years, yet it wouldn’t be enough to protect them against Alliser. Thorne was still master-at-arms and openly siding with Jon would only worsen the boys’ situation during training.

“Let’s head home,” Thorne instructed loudly, sharp eyes never leaving Jon’s gaze. “I can only stomach so much incompetence in any day. If the whole Watch goes mad nibbling just on stray fruit and potatoes, I pray you lot starve first, because nobody would be able to look at you without rage and disgust.”

The ser lead the way alone, the rest walking back with Lord Snow. Jon could not supress a small smile. He had walked alone when he first began, yet now there are more than a hundred boys he could call brothers. Most grew up under poor circumstances, and as such none were up to par with his own fighting skills or those of Robb’s. But each and every day they would wake early and begin training, swinging their swords around until they ripen with bruises, readying themselves for a battle they did not choose. The more time he spent with them, the more Jon admired them.

An hour passed in companionable silence. Sat atop his own horse, Jon listened to the sounds of his steed’s hooves trudging along the cold terrain. Methodically, he would check on Longclaw every few minutes to ascertain it still hung half-loosely against his outer left thigh. Chunks of snow fell heavier and heavier with the passing of time, but Jon found himself heating up. It was a feeling distinguishable from all others felt only before a life changing encounter. In all his twenty one years of life, he has felt this warmth just thrice: the first when he found the white direwolf pup, the second when he met the Old Bear and the third, during his first time witnessing the dead walk among the living.

The excitement came on him suddenly, as his heart began to beat quicker and harder against his dark-clad chest. He looked around and strained to hear more than the now-deafening silence. _Show yourself,_ he thought, as he willed himself to gain composure worthy of the name, ‘Stark’. There was little sense in this feeling of zeal while he was not even sure what he was waiting for; yet it would not go away.

His whole body felt _hot_. As if there was a torch lit at the pits of his stomach, slowly burning its way to every part of him. Sweating, Jon excited his horse to a gallop to catch up with Ser Alliser. He could feel the sweet, sticky moisture on his neck.

A sharp shriek pierced the forests of the Gift, followed by a loud thump. Jon pulled hard on the reins as he skidded to a halt beside Thorne. An intense feeling of dread engulfed him. Instantly, he was on his feet, pulling Alliser down on the ground with him. On the ser’s hand was his longbow with its string trembling – recently fired.

“What did you do?” the young man asked, terror palpable on his voice.

“There was a strange sound by those trees, so I took a shot. Some of us are born with hunting instincts,” the master-at-arms smugly replied.

Jon turned away, wordless. There was no use to argue. He began to walk tentatively towards where he heard the fall, sprinting faster than he ever ran when he heard a moan of pain. It was a human sound, no doubt about it. _A woman,_ he thought. It took him no more than a minute to reach where his heart willed him to go but Jon felt so helplessly slow.

The sight in front of him made his breath hitch. There she stood, slightly crouched, poised in a defensive stance. On her left hand she held a large dagger, slightly curved at its point. On her right, she held an arrow. No, held was not the right word. The hand was raised in front of her face in an obvious attempt to protect. Her whole arm ran with the red thickness of her blood which flowed freely from her palm. The blade of the arrow had broken through.

He started towards her but was stopped in his track by her growl. He forced his eyes from her hand and found hers trained on his own form – fierce, threatening, dangerous. They were magnificent.

A strange mix of anguish and passion threatened to drain his lungs of their hard won air. He was not entirely sure when he began to speak. “I won’t hurt you,” he heard himself saying. Jon knew not of a single occasion where this has calmed anyone down. Distrust is a common trait in Westeros. But to his surprise, the woman visibly relaxed.

Her eyes softened. She lowered her wounded hand and offered him a fragile smile. Jon felt weak.

“What in seven hells is going on here?” Thorne interrupted, his grating voice bringing the young man back to his senses. _Focus, my boy,_ he envisioned his father saying.

“You shot her,” was all he could manage, never daring to leave her gaze. While Alliser was busy cursing the Others, the hells, heavens, the gods and whatever else, Jon felt his feet moving towards her. One after the other, like he had no wilful control over them.

Finally, he managed to bring his eyes away to focus on her bleeding hand. He stretched his hand towards her. An invitation. _Come with me_ , he entreated, the strangest sense of vulnerability taking hold of his heart. He looked up to see her grimace, contemplating the wooden stick on her red hand and the silver blade beneath it. Once more, she caught his gaze and laughed in pain.

_She’s trying to calm herself down,_ Jon understood. Without a word of explanation, she cried out a battle cry then quickly yanked the blade from her hand. “I don’t like arrows,” she mumbled softly.

Jon caught her as she fell.

~*~*~*

Pyp’s smirking eyes were watching him again.

He glared at him with annoyance and glanced over to Sam and Grenn who were seated at his right. Their expressions matched that of Pyp. If Jon paid closer attention, so did the expressions of everyone at the dining hall. “A little raven told us about your beautiful lover from the forest,” Grenn had teased him two nights ago. “Said you gave Alliser a good beating then carried your woman to the Maester’s study.” When Jon had tried to explain that he’d just met her, Grenn had chuckled. “That’s what scares me the most.”

Jon glanced furtively across the hall, worried that his brothers might have read his thoughts, but if they were looking at him before, they were doing their best to avoid his eyes now. That strange woman has only been in the Wall three days, but it seemed the story reached the ears of every man and boy of Castle Black. Although nobody except Grenn had spoken of it to Jon, the young Lord knew his actions have aroused curiosity and suspicion.

_Am I really so easy to read?_ Jon wondered. By the unnatural silence of tonight’s supper, he supposed he had been like an open book.

By all accounts, he certainly had not planned it that way. In fact, he remembered barely having coherent thoughts the moment she collapsed in his arms. All he felt was rage. At Thorne for being so despicably careless. At her for being on top of that tree to begin with. And at himself for… well, he was not quite sure for what. Perhaps he imagined he could have prevented Alliser from shooting her if he had ridden by the ser’s side. Or perhaps it was something else entirely, something he suspected he was frightened of even acknowledging.

“What are you still sitting there for, Snow?” Mormont’s voice broke the hall’s silence, his tall, dark form slightly leaning on the door’s frame. Although the words were to the young Stark, the entire brotherhood lifted their heads ever so slightly in anticipation. This did not escape the older man’s notice and accordingly, he raised his address for the larger audience. “I, for one, would not waste any more time eating fruits and potatoes when there is a more enticing show awaiting me in the training yard.”

With that mysterious note and a mischievous smile that Jon did not miss, the Old Bear walked on, leaving everyone fumbling from their seats in a race to the yard. The young Stark did not miss a second. He sprinted faster than his sister, Arya, had when she was teaching her little Nymeria how to hunt. After all, it was not a common event that Mormont utters the word, ‘enticing’. Jon supposed that particular choice was made with him in mind, but he chose to ignore that for the moment.

After a few seconds of rushed movements, animated chatter and ill-mannered shoves, the corridors of Castle Black became still once more as the spectators beheld the enticing view down below. Mormont did not lie. This was definitely more interesting than fruits and potatoes. There below, on the square of dirt they use every morning as training ground stood two figures, both with sword in hand, ready to fight.

Jon felt his fists clenching harder with each passing moment. He could feel the soft warmth of the great night torches that had been set alight to illuminate the scene below. Standing underneath the pale light of the flames were the subject of his ire and the focus of his dreams. About to draw their weapons.

“Ahh, come to watch me put this insolent whore to her knees, have you?” Ser Alliser loudly bellowed. “I did not want to have her on her back so soon. But the wench insisted and a good knight never refuses!”

_I am going to kill him,_ Jon swore.

He started forward, ready to put action to oath when a strong hand pulled him back to his place. It belonged to the High Commander – stern and obliging. Jon glared at the older man, bidding him to explain. The Old Bear gave him a reassuring look and spoke in a strong voice, loud enough for all to catch his words.

“As I am sure you are all already aware, we have had ourselves a delightful visitor. She had slept for most of her three days with us but this morning upon waking, she charmingly told me that she thought our modest fort… mystically endearing.”

Mormont’s mirth proved pandemic, placing an almost imperceptible snicker upon many throats.

“Now, for some reason or another which I might or might not know,” he said, with a quick glance at Jon, “She has humbly asked me if she could stay.

“I agreed. Man or woman, I am inclined to accept anyone who can stop a wild arrow from impaling their skull with one hand. Our esteemed master-at-arms disagreed, denying she could be of any use to us, at which point, she challenged him to a duel,” Mormont finished, sending the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch into frantic, fragmented discussions.

Jon’s strange anger began to dissipate into an odd feeling of intrigue. Once again, he found himself confused. _She challenged him!?_ He could hardly believe it. It was simply too bizarre. The Seven knows Jon has never seen a woman successfully wield a weapon in his life. It was not to the point that the young Stark did not believe they could, but it was quite simply unheard of.

_Not in Braavos,_ the coherent part of his brain argued. In Braavos, it was common for women to learn the way of the sword if they so wished. No permission was sought, nor was one required. As such, it is said that some of the greatest Braavosi swordsmen were not men at all. _It is quite far but she could be from Braavos,_ Jon thought.

“So we have reached an agreement. A wager, if you will. Most of you would never have guessed me a gambling man but then again, most of you would be wrong,” the High Commander continued, taking a quick glance at the two on the ground below. “They will fight. If the girl wins, she can stay and not only that, Ser Alliser will step down. She and Lord Snow will be your new masters-at-arms.

If Ser Alliser wins, the girl will leave, I will step down from my position as High Commander and there will be an election. You will choose, once and for all, who you want as your leader. Myself or Ser Alliser Thorne.”

If the men and boys of the Watch were surprised before, it was nothing to how they felt now. Astonished. There were so many questions raised by the Old Bear’s little speech. So many, that Jon almost did not know where to begin asking.

_Who was this girl? Why is Mormont risking so much for her?_

_Is Mormont not thinking of the possible consequences bringing a girl into the Watch?_

_Since when was it decided that Jon was going to be master-at-arms?_

Jon could go on and on. The questions burned in his mind like a river of lava from a volcano erupted. He wished the older man had explained everything to him in private before all this happened. Maybe then he would not be this bemused. He silently cursed Jeor Mormont for being too damned mysterious when he could have given him a little warning.

He did not dare before to look her in the eyes, but he felt he had to now. She had been looking at him, Jon was surprised to see. As if she specifically sought him out. As if she wished to know more about him the way he wished to know more about her. The thought brought a small smile to his lips.

Which in turn brought a smile to her lips.

Which in turn led Jon to wonder, _how in seven hells is he going to manage working with her?_

A sizeable laugh from his side broke the moment as Jon forced himself to look up at the culprit. It seemed their little exchange did not escape Mormont’s attention. With a small shake of the head from the older man, Jon watched on without another word – her safety at the forefront of his mind.

 

 


End file.
